Memoria
by Spheral3
Summary: Subject 221002 fights to survive test after test that GLaDOS throws at him, while his mysterious companion named Sherlock strives to keep him alive. Caught in their struggle, memories of who he was and what he's lived through resurface, painting the white walls with his nightmares. Will Sherlock reach him in time, or will GLaDOS get the weapon she's been hoping for?
1. Subject: John

Waking up to the hum of machines was, to test Subject 221002, something of a comfort to hear. To him, it meant that everything was the same as when he had left it.

Subject pushed himself to sit up against the wall, feeling the ache in his bones from lying on metal floors. He lifted his hands and pulled his fingers down his greasy face, reaching down to the stubble of his chin, before he pushed them back up to his eyes and rubbed them. Subject's hair was a mousy blond color that was cut short. He rubbed his neck in a hopeless attempt to work out some of the budding knots that had formed, then looked about to see if anything had changed.

"So, you decided to take my advice," chimed a cool voice from the walls. "You did feel quite free to pass out. I was almost worried. I thought I would send something down like water, maybe, but now that you're awake, why don't you refresh yourself with finishing the test instead."

The lines of Subject's face were pulled by his frown, blue eyes looking up to an egg-shaped device that served as a camera to monitor his actions. He got back to his feet, settling into the ache of his foot as they were forced into an almost on-point position from the long-fall boots he wore. He stretched, for display rather than use, before bending down to slip his arm back into his gun.

He held a portal device; a white and semi-egg shaped gun that could create relating portals at the pull of a trigger. The novelty of such a device wore off quickly, but the subject's appreciation for it did not, especially when hurtling through the air at heights of over fifty feet.

Subject looked about the room, remembering the unfinished puzzle he had left until such time. He walked forward, looking into the adjacent room located opposite of the entryway. A blue light shown in the doorway, but Subject 221002 could pass through easily enough. Once in the annex he could better see the large red button on the floor, perhaps five feet in diameter. The cube that would go on the button and solve the puzzle, however, was nowhere to be found. He winced as he recalled the other part of the room.

Walking back into the main room, he looked to the hallway in his right. A pool of toxic sludge lay quietly in the hallway pit. Platforms were pulled along by a conveyer belt on the white walls, but were traveling towards him, rather than toward the unknown destination.

Taking a breath, Subject 221002 raised his gun, aimed, and let loose an orange light. He next aimed at the wall just to the left of the hallway, and let loose a red one. Through the portal he watched the platforms slide silently by before stepping onto one. He felt a jolt of shock when the platform wavered slightly, but held and carried on. Quickly he looked to see the next part of his destination, which was another wall, with more platforms trailing out. He took quick aim with his gun and fired off another portal, causing the one he had shot first to disappear behind him.

This lasted for several more halls until he finally was able to step back onto solid ground. Subject walked cautiously into the room, pressing him self against the wall out of some unknown instinct. The weighted science cube lay ahead of him, but it was seated behind a glass wall, guarded by three little white turrets, filled to the brim with bullets.

All around them were white walls, but the ceiling was a smooth steel surface that his device would not work on. THere was but one patch of ceiling that was white, and that was just above the tight circle of turrets.

"I'm starting to think I should have stayed asleep," Subject muttered.

He stepped forward and raised his gun. Taking aim, he felt put his finger on the trigger. Suddenly there came a blinding pain in his stomach. He opened his eyes, and found that the wall he had thought to have crashed into, was actually a floor. Subject panicked and lifted his hand, which had unconsciously pressed against the area of pain, expecting to find blood. He found nothing but the orange jumpsuit he wore, which worried him more. There was a smell of gas and burning tires, but when he next inhaled the scent was gone. He blinked in wonder, looking to the little white turrets who pointed their red beams at him silently through the glass. He fought to stand, but he was barreled over by dizziness and was again acquainted with the floor.

"Hmm, that's not good," chimed the cool female voice. "The turrets haven't even fired yet. You really should work on your acting, or maybe your timing. Would you like me to acquaint you with the real experience of a bullet wound to give you more conviction?"

"I cant," he said, "There's-there's something wrong, I can't finish…"

"The test is not finished. Get up and finish the test."

A silence followed. He waited, but nothing more was said. Suddenly the quiet hum became unnerving.

Subject picked himself up, fighting the nausea that had decided to invite it's self along as well. He stood, lifting his gun.

"There!" he yelled, "There, I'm up. Happy?"

Still no response. Subject took a step forward, his attention again pointed to the turrets. He felt his heart sink in fear; if he were to try and out wit them like this he felt that he'd surely fail. The lead would surely find a new home in his aching stomach. At the very least it would fill it with something, he thought bitterly. His stomach pang-ed in response.

The lights suddenly flickered.

"Oh god." he said, but while the words meant little to nothing to him, they were always the exclamation he reached for first.

From somewhere behind the thick walls, there came the horrid sound of metal scraping against metal, tearing through steal and twisting it from its original shape. The room shook violently, lights flickering, and turrets falling over and releasing their load onto the glass walls. Subject's strength failed him and he fell to the ground.

"I'm sorry!" he cried. "I'm sorry! I'll do it! I'll do the test! Please, just stop!"

His cries were unheard as the room was suddenly split by the incoming presence of another room.

Subject 221002 stared at the joining wall in horror. He could do little more than gape as it was pulled back out, letting a stale breeze fill the room. John's eyes widened at the scene before him.

The hole revealed a vast scene of robotic arms, delivery shoots, and all the workings of a factory. The scene stretched on and into a faint blue distance.

He felt his stomach drop again at the sheer height he and the room he was held in, stood at. Staring back at him was a vast blackness, peering into him as he gaped back at it. He backed away from the opening, but not before catching sight of someone not but a stone's throw away.

A man stood on a metal catwalk, holding another Portal gun. This man's gun was aimed directly at Subject 221002. When the gun went off, 221002 just barely jumped out of the way. He rolled and quickly got back to his feet, pressing himself against the sturdy glass wall that remained standing, even after all the turret bullets. He looked to where the portal had been made and aimed his own gun. He wasn't sure what direct contact with a portal blast could so to a human, but he'd do whoever it was the same favor of firing at him if they were to come through. Something did get launched through, a small bag. Subject 221002 kept his gun aimed at the bag though his arm began to shake from weakening muscles.

The Portal remained.

"John," the voice from the other end spoke. Subject kept his gun raised. "John, are you still awake?"

Subject remained quiet, his face pulled into question.

"Get the bag, John, hurry."

"What's in the bag?" Subject shouted back.

"Food, John."

The voice was deep, a near rumble, but slow and cautious at the same time.

"Who are you?"

"A friend."

Subject felt his head rush with pain as another dizzy spell took over him.

"You expect me to believe that?" he yelled back, "That I'd just…just ask and then suddenly…suddenly food?"

"John, I need you to focus right now. You're in a high-stress environment, your adrenaline is racing through your blood stream, making you scientifically unsound to pass rational judgement. Don't be stupid, pick up the food and eat."

"How do I know this isn't a trap?"

There was a frustrated groan from the other side.

"It's only appropriate that you be in a state of paranoia, but you're going to have to completely disregard it and think like a sane man."

"I am a sane man!"

"Oh please, no one is sane when they're as malnourished and hyper tense as you. Get over your fear and pick up the food before _She_ gets back on line, or I promise that whatever box she sticks you in next will be your last."

Subject remained where his was, struggling with the heavy device to keep his arm up.

"Oh for Christsake-"

There came the sound of stabbing, and the unpleasant noise of aluminum scraping against it's self. A can was thrown in, startling 221002. Peaches spilled out from the open top.

"There, see? Food." Said the voice. "Eat!"

"How do I know it's not poisoned?"

Yet even as subject 221002 spoke, he had lowered his gun and leaned forward.

"You don't, I do. They're not. Eat."

221002 didn't hesitate for another moment, his stomach was begging for food. He crawled forward and greedily grabbed the slippery slices off the ground and devoured them. He scraped the rest out of the can and into his mouth, accidentally cutting his lip on the metal, but it was so slight that it did nothing to distract him from his meal.

When finished, he gasped and gave a forced exhale. The sweet taste lingered on his tongue, and savored.

"Water, what about water?"

"Look in the bag. Take this too."

A can opener was tossed through the portal and cluttered to the floor. It was a simple clawed opener suck inside a red handle. Subject grabbed up the opener before looking into the orange portal. He could not tell if he was looking at a wall, a ceiling or a floor, but what he did see was a smooth grey-almost black- surface, where upon blue light was reflecting off of it.

"Hold on," said subject. "I'll grab the food and come through.

"No, stay in there,"

"You're joking."

"I will close this portal."

"Why bother saving me if you're just going to condemn me again?"

Subject tensed as the seconds passed.

"You bastard…you bloody-bastard!"

221002 had started to go through, when suddenly robotic arms had sprung up to catch him by his chest and shoulders. He yelled out fighting against the machines that held him, but somehow the stranger's voice rang out clear.

"You can't leave, but you will. I promise."

"Liar!"

He sunk the can opener into the robotic arm. It clipped a wire, weakening the arm only slightly, but with a powerful push by the robotic arms, Subject was thrown back into the room. The orange portal closed before him. He got up and raced to the opening, standing nearly on the edge and peaking out. He could just see the outline of a man with unruly hair, tall and thin, but all other details were lost to the light the shown behind him.

"Bastard!" Subject yelled out, but the man didn't move. "Who are you?"

The man ducked into the shadows, and the little station was abandoned.

John took no time in getting back to the bag, grabbing up the can opener, and digging into whatever he could get his hands on first.

Half way into his third can, containing a slurry mess of peas, the lights flickered again. John stopped eating, wiping the corners of his mouth with his orange sleeve. He quickly tucked the can opener into his suit and out of sight.

"I'm back," said the cool voice. "Oh look, rat droppings."

The white floor panels underneath the cans fell away, and John could only watch as they tumbled into the darkness.

"There, now that I've chased the pests back to their nest, let's get you started on a new test."

White panels off to his right opened up, revealing a makeshift hallway for him to walk down and navigate through. His eyes went from the new exit and to the tear. It was already being closed up, and he was soon engulfed by the florescent white. He stared at it for a moment, puzzled by his shifting vision. The wall, for only a moment, look as though it had exhaled. The pattern before him shifted but slowed to a stop.

His attention went back to the hall, and taking up his gun in his right while supporting it with his left, walk on.


	2. The Rats

Subject 221002 awoke to the sound of gunfire. His eyes opened and he shot up, aiming his gun all around at the white walls. He could smell fire, people were screaming, but everywhere he looked was white and cold. Then the voices faded, the gun fire ceased, and he was alone with the low hum. He hadn't realized he had been yelling until his voice had begun to die down with the other sounds.

Subject collapsed against the wall, wiping the sweat from his brow, which had become a clammy coat of saline taint. He blinked the sleep from his eyes. The grunts that escaped his lips served to anchor him to his surroundings.

Where had the shouting come from? He had not dreamed. It was the sounds that had jerked him violently out of the darkness and back to these rooms. It was a first, appearing in much the same way the mysterious stranger had come along.

There came the chirp of the intercom, signaling _Her_ arrival.

"You vitals again," she hummed. "There's nothing to get excited about, after all, you haven't even started yet. Maybe another test will calm your nerves."

"I…I heard gunfire," he called up to her. "I heard it. What was that all about?"

"Gun fire?"

"And screams. Who else is here?"

"No one."

"No one. Right, except for…" he bit the inside of his cheeks, silently scolding himself.

"Except...? For the pests?"

There was a silence.

"I wouldn't trust them, if I were you. After all, what did they offer you? Food?"

"More than you've given me."

"Food, but not freedom."

Subject opened his mouth to argue, but remained silent in reluctant agreement.

"A strange thing, isn't it? Why keep you here if they were going to save you. After all, if they can crawl and chew their way through the systems then why not extract you when the opportunity was given? Never mind though, I'm sure they're intentions are good. Prolonging one's time can be mistaken for an act of mercy, right?"

A chime rang out, signaling that she was finished talking to him.

Subject 221002 narrowed his eyes up at the camera. He became strangely aware of the can opener in his left breast pocket, it's weight, and the sharp end pointed down and along the ribs.

There must be a plan at hand, thought Subject, some kind of plan to get me out of here. He remembered the voice from behind the blue portal. That man must have a plan, a plan to get out. As long as he was out, that was all that mattered.

From behind the safety of a video monitor, the tall stranger who had aided 221002 watched said subject begin the next test.

"Ah, Sherlock," came the timid voice of a little A.I. It's name was Wheatley, "She's gone now, but that probably means she's looking for us."

"It's better that way. The less time with John she has, the better."

"How exactly is that going to be good for us?"

"I never mentioned us."

The little metal ball looked from the video, then back to Sherlock. The device has two shutters, which to Sherlock, looked much like eyelids. Its handles, one on either side of its virtual eye, acted like eyebrows and the pull at one's cheeks, and were used in much the same way. At the moment, Sherlock could swear that its shutters were squinting while its handles were arched up, making the little thing look frightened. The A.I. fascinated him for it's near-perfect imitation of human emotion.

"Do you recommend we move then?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes, and soon would be best."

Without another word, Sherlock reached up and grabbed the head-sized ball off the rail it operated on. Wheatley released himself into Sherlock's grasp, and off they went.

Sherlock exited the unmanned office and back out onto the catwalks. The grey railing served as the only surface between him and the daunting abyss below.

"So," started Wheatley, and Sherlock could feel him emote from under his grasp, "Where now?"

"She has an off switch, or a weakness of some kind. Tell me where to find it."

"Yes, that's true, but, ah, as I've said before—though I don't know if you were listening, it's kind of hard to tell with you, what with you frowning all the time…" he gave a nervous laugh as he stared into the cold but patient face of Sherlock. "That, _ah-hem, _that the off switch—per say—is practically next to her. She keeps it close but I doubt that she'd keep it out in the open, again."

"Again?"

"Ah, well, yes but having her off wasn't enough. Someone shut her down before but…but then she got turned back on."

"How? Who turned her back on?"

"Ah…well…dunno, really. It's quite the mystery, that is."

Wheatley began to make a little high-pitched whistle. In Sherlock's opinion, whoever had made this little A.I. had made him very stupid, or very average.

"So she didn't turn herself back on," continued Sherlock.

"Was she any different after being shut down? Any memory lost?"

"No, nothing sounded like it was lost. She was the same lunatic she was before, but more angry I suppose."

"If she was shut down and turned back on with everything in tact, then that means that she has some kind of black box that backed up her information."

"Yes! Oh, that's brilliant! That must be why…er…"

"Why what?"

"Why…she was able to come back and be her old self again."

Sherlock frowned, and in response, Wheatley's shutter's and handles affixed themselves accordingly to his nervous laugh.

"I'm starting to think I should have left you in space."

"Ah, no—wait, wait, wait, I can help. I _want_ to help."

Sherlock paused, studying the small machine. He couldn't help but detect the presence of guilt, and it unnerved him.

"Then start helping. Tell me everything you know about GLaDOS."

"Right. Where should I start? Wait, never mind, that's obvious. The beginning, right? Okay, let me think. Sometimes it's hard to know exactly what the beginning is…"

Sherlock waited with what precious little patience he had for the babbling instrument. The two arrived at another little station. It looked like it was once a station to monitor the delivery tubes. Sherlock found a vent, which was big enough for his lanky body to fit through.

"This one is blank," he said quietly, more to himself than his companion.

"Oh yeah," chimed in Wheatley, "guess our friend didn't go through here. This place is so huge though, so I'm not surprised. It goes on for miles and miles…"

Setting Wheatley down, Sherlock set to work on pulling the metal vent cover off.

"You know," began Wheatley, "going after the black box may not be a bad idea. The only problem is I don't know where that is. It's classified information, or at least, it became classified after _She_ took over. _Woof_, that was a nasty day…"

Sherlock gathered the Portal gun in his grasp, and using it to carry Wheatley, then turned and entered into the vent. Sherlock's knee caught on his deep blue coat, tripping him and causing Wheatley to knock against the weak steel.

"You alright?" Asked the ball.

"Fine."

"It's the coat, you know. Maybe you should just leave it behind?"

"The coat stays. Does this vent lay out look familiar to you?"

Wheatley spun in mid air to look about the vent.

"Hmm…about as familiar as any other vent. I'd say just keep going straight for now. That's the best we can hope for, until we come to a turn, then it's just left of right, depending on whatever comes first. Anyway, what was I talking about?"

"Everything," Sherlock muttered.

"What? Didn't catch that mate—oh! Right, the beginning! It all starts with Bring Your Daughter to Work Day—oh! Take a left here, a left."

"Yes, thank you. Were going in a vent with only one option off to my left, of course I'd take the left. Let me handle the directions, you just keep talking."

"Ah, right. I'll let you do that. You seem to be on top of it for now—"

"Wheatley."

"Right, sorry. Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, that's the day she woke up. The scientists had picked that day to turn her on, but she went mad! Absolutely berserk. Released neurotoxin into the whole facility, killing off practically everyone. Those she left alive she forced them to test and test until they died."

"And now she's testing John? Why? What are the tests for?"

"Ah, that's a good question. Namely for science."

Sherlock stopped crawling, his confused expression pointed at Wheatley.

"Yes, but of what sort?"

"Science-y sort, I suppose. I dunno, I was never very good at science."

"Incredible…" Sherlock groaned, continuing through the vent.

Sherlock reached the end of the vent and crawled out. In front of him was a dark office. Monitors sat at abandoned desks with paper work and posted notes scattered about.

Sherlock sat down against the walls of the darkened room. The only source of light was Wheatley's eyes. Sherlock picked him up and set him down in front of him.

"Right," started Sherlock, "Go on then. Tell me more about what happened. How was she shut down the first time?"

"Well, I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but I know that it must have involved pulling off the cores that were attached to her. They had inhibited her way of thinking. They were suppose to keep her from going crazy, but they didn't seem to quite do the job. Destroying those had caused her to short-circuit—I think, well, something like that. Anyway, she shut down, and for years and years the facility was out of commission. Then there was a long span of time where absolutely nothing happened."

"Who turned her back on, and for what purpose?"

"You…are not going to like the answer."

"Just tell me why you did it."

Wheatley gave a small electronic chirp in surprise.

"You knew?"

"You're not exactly the Fort Knox of secret keeping. Your emotions betray you."

"Right…well, guess I had this coming anyway. Cat's out of the bag anyway, eh?"

It made the sound of taking in a breath and closed its eye; Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in response.

"Okay," started Wheatley. "I was simply trying to help out another test subject, while trying to get out of the facility myself. When it came time to finding the escape pod, I accidentally began the start up program…which flipped all the switches and turned her back on—and let me tell you, she was not happy. Not one bit. The human I had with me was thrown back into testing and I was cast off to repair myself."

"Is he or she dead yet?"

Wheatley's eyes blinked and stared into Sherlock's, it's gaze going from eye to eye before turning to the ground.

"I'm not sure…actually. I mean…what comes next is,—it's complicated."

"I see."

There was much history yet to be discovered, yet, as with any case, he felt the background to be important to figuring out the case. The case at hand wasn't only a rescue mission, but to find out what this A.I. wanted John for.

GLaDOS had taken John, though her first option had been him self before he had managed to escape. Sherlock leaned back against the wall, his elbows propped on his knees to touch his fingers together in thought. He peered into the darkness, the light below him flicking from place to place and making the shadows jerk in response.

"Ah…Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes closed, curbing the budding frustration.

"What?"

"Will you help me find her?"

Sherlock looked back down at the orb, its lower handle had jerked up as he pleaded with Sherlock, causing him to rock gently in place.

"Please, that's my only request. I just want to know if she did it, if she made it out."

The squinting, pleading little device made Sherlock's stomach turn. He turned his head for a moment before retuning it to the sad and unnerving sight. He paused in thought.

"Why do you care if she got out or not?" he asked.

"I just…she was my friend, like that fellow down there is yours. I just want to know that one thing, that's all I ask in return for helping you."

Sherlock studied it for a moment, his game of deductions being played out before him like a torrent that he could not cease. The realization came swiftly, though its arrival had been prolonged by denial.

Sherlock's head rested against the wall as he looked into the darkness. There were too little variables at this point to try and even conjecture a motive for GLaDOS, but there were hints and clues beginning to line up.

"Sherlock…?" the little A.I.'s voice was small, nervous.

Sherlock lowered his gaze back to him.

"I will do what I can."

"You will? Ah! That's brilliant, thank you! Oh really, you—you have no idea how happy that makes me! Honestly, if I had arms I'd hug you."

Wheatley's laugh died down and all was quiet again. Sherlock leaned forward and peered ahead of him, into the darkness of the office.

"So then," Wheatley started up again. "What's the plan now?"

"The little black box. We have to destroy it before we can get to her."

"Brilliant. Okay…so how do we find it?"

"I don't know yet. Before we do that, we should get somewhere that's familiar."

"Right! Orient ourselves. Touch base. Make it back to HQ—"

"Stop talking."

"Right."


	3. A Question of Why

Aperture Laboratories was an almost endless system of self-sustaining operations, from constructing turrets to placing together test chambers, and even repairing its damages if any occurred. Sherlock looked out to the vast workings of the robotic arms and the glass mail tubes. Behind each and every operation was the A.I. that had imprisoned them here. She had a reach that spanned for miles and miles. If Sherlock made one wrong move, attempted contact just a second too early, GLaDOS would know, and she'd be there before within the next regretful breath.

Suddenly there was a clatter off to Sherlock's right. He didn't have to look to know that Wheatley has caused something to tumble to the ground, and there was no reward in looking over to see he was right.

"_Ohh_, come on. Now—who put's a filing cabinet in the middle of the room like that, right?" Wheatley had looked up to see Sherlock's steely blue-green eyes cast his way. The little metal ball, suspended by an arm hung on railing, gave a nervous laugh in response to Sherlock's gaze. The detective turned back.

GLaDOS was every where, save for the little stations that had been reserved for humans. These dark rooms did not buzz with the same liveliness that her test chambers did. In the quiet hum of silence that permeated the air, Sherlock found his mind to be overwhelmed with it. It permeated even his mind palace, which he tried to keep filled with any kind of noisy thought he could conjure. Something for his mind to work over and solve. In the waiting though, in these times where nothing was to happen, he found it difficult to keep his thoughts focused on anything but where John might be held at that moment. Was he safe? More importantly, was John still the John he knew, still the resilient soldier who could look into the face of danger with a slight glint of thrill in his eye.

"So, _ahm_, anyway," Wheatley glided over towards Sherlock, breaking his train of thought. "I've located our position, finally. We're in Research and Development 57B right now, and the block we're in is R&D, of course."

"Where does that put us?"

"About three miles out from her _lair_."

"And the black box?"

"Nothing yet, but still looking. So… at least there's that."

Sherlock let out a breath, his mind itching to work over a problem, desiring a puzzle, something other than worrying. The vast sight held little interest for him and he turned away from it.

"Pointless."

"Sorry?" asked Wheatley.

"Look out there, and what do you see? Little metal arms all constructing, re-constructing, fixing, breaking, delivering, removing, and all for what?"

"Tests?"

"For tests. Tests she makes, but why? That's the only interesting thing, the why of it all. I've worked it over and again of what these physical and mental gauntlets could lend themselves as training for, but it doesn't add up. When you think of the end result of each test, it seems as if the answer is a lead to another question."

"So you know the why then? Why she tests?"

"The why of the tests aren't important. It's the _why_ of John. The why of the your friend. The tests serve as something I can't find any meaning in, so if it isn't the tests themselves then what is she looking for in the subject? In that, I cannot find an answer either." he paused and leaned against the rail, looking back to a fully constructed test chamber that gently glided by. "And in that reasoning I would dare to conjecture that she can't either."

Little clicks and whirrs sounded inside of Wheatley as he watched the test chamber.

"Suppose not. I dunno what I'd look for in 'em, human's I mean. I guess when I was testing—I mean, watching the tests, I didn't really know what to look for. Probably because it wasn't my division. I thought you might know though."

"Why?"

"Because you're human, right? Maybe it's something humans could see? I dunno. Maybe it really is for nothing then."

Sherlock raised his gaze to him for a moment before looking back ahead.

"Something only humans can see. There's a lot that humans miss very day, and it isn't because they lack the capacity, but because they don't use what's given to them."

"What's that?"

"Their brain."

"What do they use instead?"

"I don't know. Their heart— or, something."

"Oh."

Sherlock pushed off from the railing and walked back inside, leaving Wheatley to silently follow after him. Sherlock eased himself back into the long fall boots. The almost on-point angle caused him to ache, but he was finding that easing into them was growing easier.

"What's the time?" asked Sherlock.

"Seven o' clock," said Wheatley.

"AM or PM?"

"AM, why?"

"It's good to have anchors."

"Sorry?"

"Never mind. Our priority right now is food, then finding that black box."

"Right! Let's go."

Sherlock looked to Wheatley, whose gaze was held on him, looking gleeful.

"Don't look so excited."

"I can't help it. Ach, it's just…I mean look at us planning, scheming, and all to get out of here! How can I not be excited?"

"I wish I knew the answer to that."

"Would that be a head or a heart answer?"

Sherlock let out a breath of frustration, quietly. He motioned to Wheatley, and the A.I. glided closer to Sherlock before disconnecting himself from the arm. Wheatley fell safely into Sherlock's hands, who proceeded to carry him by way of his portal gun.

"So, whose hungry?" said Wheatley with a nervous laugh.

Subject's stomach lurched in starvation. The concept was puzzling to Subject, since there wasn't much left in his system since the last time he had eaten. Ignoring this, Subject placed the cube on top of the red button and listened to the buzz of the door unlocking.

Subject turned and saw that the door to the elevator had remained closed. Subject picked up the box and set it down, hearing the same noise but turning to see that the door remained shut.

The Subject walked over to it, as if being closer would provide some answer. Had he not completed the test correctly?

His eyes turned to the ceiling, and his thoughts wandered back to the man. The figure had been causing more trouble lately, even managing to some how push panels in the test room to hide more food for Subject to find. The can opener that Subject kept in his breast pocket served him well. It was tucked away again, safe and out of sight from GLaDOS. He wasn't sure what she'd do if she found it on him, and he hoped to never find out.

The silence of the room became more apparent, now that the puzzle had been solved and there was nothing else to think of. _How much trouble can this one man be to Her, _he wondered.

Subject sat down, leaned against the door, his gaze wandering to the camera that hung to his left. It looked back at him, focusing and re-focusing on him.

"Yeah, when you have a minute, the door's jammed or something. You might want to fix that."

The camera remained still and fixed on him. John let out a breath and leaned his head on the wall, looking up to the ceiling in thought. He blinked and rubbed his tired eyes. They held that particular soreness to them that came from being in air conditioning too long, or perhaps it was the lack of sleep.

He blinked a few times, his head resting on his fist.

He slowly began to notice the intrusion of a smell. It smelled like gas, like a gas fire. Alert now, he sat up and looked about him, trying to find the source. He leaned against the door and took in a few sniffs. The smell was mixed with a harsh metal smell, yet it had a strong coppery tinge to it. He felt a warmth of liquid spill over his nose and mouth and made John recoil, backing away from it. He wiped his face, removing his hand to find blood. He sputtered and coughed, and quickly lifted his sleeve to wipe off any more that remained. He looked to the door, finding a small trickle of red ooze was bleeding through. It poured down onto the floor, its contrast harsh against the white panels.

The smell of something burning came back to him. There were cries behind the door, and pounding. Subject stepped away and the screams became louder, pleas heard in a language he didn't speak. The pounding was fierce and desperate. The red liquid spurt through the split in the metal doors, as if being forced through. The door began to give way to the weight of all those behind it.

"Let them through!" Subject yelled, his eyes to the cameras. "God—please just let them through!"

"Let who through?" asked the cold voice of GLaDOS.

"Stop it! Stop it now! They're hurt, just let me look at them, I can help! Let them through!"

"You want me to open the doors now?"

"Yes! Open them!" he pleaded.

The doors slid open, and the Subject rushed forward to collect whoever would fall over from injury. He ran straight into an empty hall, occupied only by an elevator, opened and waiting for him. He turned his gaze to the floor. The floor was the same pristine white it had always been, lacking even the slightest trace of blood. He stood alone in a white room.

"Well then, did you find what you were looking for?" asked GLaDOS.

Subject turned around, stepping back into the test chamber and looking to the floor.

"No I…I don't understand. There was…there was all this blood here. Right here. I don't…"

"You may proceed to the next test."

"What did you do?" he barked. "What did you do to them?"

"Who?" asked the A.I.

"The people who were here! They were screaming, pounding and...and all the blood…"

"There were no people here, 221002."

"But…God how…?" he put his hand to his mouth, then remembered with a startle his sleeve. It too was clean of any blood.

"221002?"

"Yeah…no yeah, I'm alright. Just…just a mistake."

"Before you move on, let me ask you this, you said you could help _those people_."

"Yes?"

"Tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Why did you think you could help them?"

"They were screaming, all of them. Why wouldn't I want to help them?"

"No. What makes you think you could help anyone?"

Subject paused. He peered at the ceiling, his gaze shifting quickly to the camera.

"Do you think good people end up in places like this?" she continued, "Contributing anonymously for science? No."

The panels on the walls began to flip from his right and pushing on to his left, surrounding him in sleek silver walls.

"This is not where good people come to live out their days."

"Is that right? Then I suppose you know who I am then?"

"I know that you are no hero."

"No, my name. Is it…is it really what that man called me? Am I John?"

"Finish this next test, and maybe I'll tell you more."

There was a silence. The little chime sounded next to the door. John scowled at the camera and proceeded into the hallway. The doorway shut behind him.

The doors would have to be pried open with a metal pipe if Sherlock and Wheatley wanted to enter the small cafeteria. Wheatley's robotic arm, which he commandeered from the assembly line, came into use then, as it aided in pushing the sturdy door aside.

"This place baffles me in its logic," said Sherlock through grit teeth. The door gave way and was able to be pushed open the rest of the way with ease.

"What do you mean?" asked Wheatley, who was back up on his railing.

"Why go through the trouble of putting such heavy security around a cafeteria?"

"Maybe to keep the _mystery meat_ a _mystery_," laughed Wheatley.

"Oh you are a charming one, aren't you?"

"And you don't like jokes apparently…"

Sherlock stepped into the room. It was dark, but Wheatley found the lights and turned them on. Sherlock looked about at the rows of long white picnic tables, four all together. Off to the side was a small kitchen. Sherlock headed for it and instantly began opening the cabinets. He was grateful to find silver cans, labeled, and all untouched. He began to gather them. Finding a trash bag Sherlock gathered them all before carefully pulling the cans over his shoulder. He had found seventeen in total, a bountiful feast that was sure to last him. He looked up to see Wheatley had been watching him.

"Shut up."

"I didn't said anything," said Wheatley, startled.

"I can hear you think—literally. There's something that buzzes or sparks whenever you do anything."

"I was just…I mean you do kinda remind me of a rat."

Sherlock's face remained unmoved.

"Well, I mean, with all the gathering and storing away..."

"This is necessary to make sure she can never pin point us or keep us separate from the nesessities," said Sherlock.

"Oh, yea, no—quite right. It's just, you know, I mean you'd have to be blind to not see the similarities."

Sherlock began walking, leaving Wheatley to follow him.

"I don't mean anything by it, mind you," continued Wheatley, "I just…look sorry, I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

"Talking?"

"Yes, exactly. Arg, I'm bloody rubbish at it, aren't I? Maybe that's why she never spoke to me."

"Who?"

"Why friend, the one you'll help me find."

"It was a she. What was her name?"

"She never said. She never said a single word, actually. So usually to fill up the time I'd just talk to her. She seemed kinda lonely, like she'd just been runnin' around too long, you know? Just playing the same old game, so I though a friendly voice would help her, just some nice words instead of being called all those names all the time, nothing much. Ahh, I don't know if it helped any. I felt like I was in the way, but other times I was sure that maybe, just maybe, she was grateful for me being there. Well before I…"

Sherlock waited for Wheatley to continue, but he noticed that the sound of the arm running along the rail had stopped as well. He turned back, his gaze pointed the where the ball hung sadly.

"I just…I mean it must have been so hard. I thought it was. So just to hear something…maybe even a little something, I thought, might maybe cheer her up a bit. It's not much but…"

Sherlock stood for a moment, adjusting the weight of the cans.

"Wheatley," he said at last, "we need to hurry if we want to help them."

Wheatley looked up.

"Oh! Right, sorry. No time for feeling sorry for our selves now, right? I mean myself, really. Right, so…where are we headed now? Let's see. Get my barring's…and…ah! There. There we go, through here…"

Wheatley's light faded as he continued down the hallway, the detective just behind him.


End file.
